The Jaded Martyr
by Alaura Fairfield
Summary: (Othello) The tragedy affected more than just the hero and villain; Emilia reflects upon her life and the events that led to the complete destruction of her world. Rating for future chapters.
1. Prologue

_Emilia speaks_:

As I reflect upon the events leading up to my death, I can understand why some may be inclined to lay the blame of the great tragedy on me. I was Iago's accomplice, in a technical fashion; I procured the handkerchief, I never questioned his motives...I sealed their death warrants with my blind faith. But tell me--what woman would wish to believe that her husband, the father of her children, could possess a heart so cold and unfeeling? Who would willingly admit that the man with whom she shares her life could be capable of manipulation and murder? Surely not I; even when I felt the cold steel of the blade penetrate my skin, even when I looked up to see Iago holding the sword handle, his eyes blank and devoid of compassion...even then, I doubted. Even then I looked about the room frantically, trying to locate my killer, unable to accept that my husband could take my life so casually. But he did. His hands were stained with the blood of many: myself, the fop Roderigo, the Moor...and Desdemona. Oh, even now that I have passed the boundaries of the physical world, my heart cries out for her. The dear innocent, murdered for a crime she did not commit. And I loved her so.

But did I love Iago? I cannot say...I still do not know. I respected his intelligence, I yearned for his approval, I desired his body...but did I _love him_? From a sensible perspective, it would be impossible for me to answer in the affirmative. Iago was an evil, murdering traitor, and it was he who tore my life from me, leaving my children motherless...yes, any rational person would simply make up her mind to hate him for all eternity. But I find that I cannot. My feelings for Iago are destined to remain a mystery that even the supposedly omniscient nature of the afterlife cannot fully unravel, and I no longer even attempt to define them.

But I often wonder how I evolved into the cynical, worldly creature that I was at the time of my death. Surely I wasn't born as such---no, the young Emilia was nothing if not an idealist. Then how did my airy dreams and fancies disappear so completely in just a few short years? I died at twenty-three; hardly a vast age. Thus, my complete transformation over a ten year period continues to perplex me. So I shall simply have to recount the story of those years, and perhaps all will become clear when I am through. Well, one can only hope.


	2. Chapter One

Venice in the early spring was a spectacular sight; the trees and flowers bloomed with vibrant color, the sun painted the canals gold, and the entire city bustled with energy and life. However, no area of Venice harbored more activity than the marketplace, which became a veritable beehive during this busy season. Merchants from across the continent congregated around the various pavilions and stands, each one inspecting the others' wares while simultaneously and aggressively advertising his own. The center of the market provided an excellent venue for people-watching, for the diversity of the products was only matched by that of the salesmen and clientele. And no one appreciated this quality more than the womenfolk of the merchants, many of whom accompanied their fathers and husbands to the market, sitting demurely beneath shaded tents as they observed the goings-on. There they were free to gossip and giggle to their hearts' content, and the vernal sojourns to the market became a staple of the middle-class social scene, a fact that pleased both matrons and maidens alike.

On one particular April afternoon, the blossoming flowers of the bourgeoisie were duly represented by a vibrant trio of damsels, each a merchant's daughter and each eager to immerse herself in the colorful scenes around her, which would surely provide fodder for a week's worth of juicy conversation. At the center of the cluster was Chiara, a voluptuous and abundantly attractive girl with a dark complexion and long-lashed, mischievous eyes that were her most prominent feature. However, her eyes were less disposed to roam today than they had been on previous trips to the market; her father, who was somewhat less wealthy than his colleagues, had eagerly accepted an offer of marriage for his daughter from a more positively situated merchant. Now that she was officially spoken for, Chiara abandoned her flirtatious behaviors (much to the chagrin of the young men of Venice) and instead focused her attention on the task of procuring suitors for her two dearest comrades. The first of these fortunate maids was a diminutive blonde by the name of Marcella, who admired her friend's easy rapport with men but could never muster up the courage to emulate her. Marcella was the primary recipient of Chiara's efforts, for she required far more assistance than Emilia. Chiara's other close friend was lively and chestnut-haired, with a stubborn nature and quick wit that frequently sent the other two girls into peals of laughter. However, Emilia remained largely unreceptive to Chiara's encouragement towards the eventual goal of marriage; the girl expressed no interest whatsoever in becoming a wife. In fact, she had successfully thwarted each of her father's attempts to secure a husband for her (Fabrizio Corelli was a prominent merchant who could easily supply a handsome dowry for his young daughter), and her skills at feigning madness, illness, and any number of other undesirable traits had become quite legendary among the merchant class of Venice. "Really, Emilia," chirped Chiara, lifting a portion of her billowy sleeve to wipe a drop of perspiration from her brow, "I cannot understand why you object so strongly to marriage. Do you not wish for a husband to care for you?"

Emilia laughed heartily, for she was well used to Chiara's criticisms and had no intention of taking offense at them. "Do husbands _really _care for their wives, Chiara? Indeed, I have seen any number of women complaining about their menfolk and wishing that they had forever remained maids. I may be but a woman, but I have no doubt that I can care for myself as well as any foolish man."

Marcella gasped slightly at Emilia's audacity; for all her timidity, she greatly wished to follow in Chiara's example and become a bride, and she could hardly fathom Emilia's reasoning for rejecting such a favorable future. "Emilia, how you talk! Your antics are funny now, but your father will soon make you marry whether you will or no. Women cannot choose their lives for them, and you know that perfectly well."

Emilia made no response to this comment, but merely turned her attention away from her two friends and towards the center of the marketplace. She had long been aware of the difference between her views on marriage and those of her friends, and Marcella and Chiara persisted in interpreting her lack of interest in matrimony as an immature phase that she would soon outgrow. Emilia did little to refute their beliefs, as she did not particularly care to share her true reason for wishing to stay unmarried. The other girls did not need to hear about the impassioned quarrels between Emilia's parents, which always concluded with the delivery of a blow to her mother's porcelain face. Emilia's mother would try to explain away the angry violet bruises upon her ivory skin, blaming her own clumsiness or the carelessness of a servant, but Emilia knew better. _If this is what it means to be cared for by a husband, then I want no part of it._

As she watched the bustling crowds of the market, Emilia noticed a small group of military men standing idly by a cart, laughing and talking with the utmost of merriment. A smile danced across her lips when she observed that each man was young and pleasing to the eye; her unwillingness to marry certainly did not affect her appreciation for a handsome face and fine physique. She used her fan to gently prod Chiara's shoulder before murmuring, "It seems that our troops have returned to Venice…and in top form, too! How very handsome they are!"

"If only I were not promised…" sighed Chiara wistfully, flashing a wicked smile at Marcella, whose fair cheeks were flushed with astonishment. "Pray, don't look so shocked, Marcella. No harm in looking." Her dark eyes continued to glow with mirth as she scanned the group, finally leaning in to whisper to Emilia, "The fair-haired man on the right is the comeliest...just look at those broad shoulders!" Turning to Marcella, she spoke once again in hushed tones, "And which do you prefer, Little Innocent?"

Lifting her fan to stifle a giggle, Marcella remained quiet for a time before responding shakily, "Oh, I don't know….they're all handsome, I suppose…" In a desperate effort to detract the attention from herself, Marcella nodded in Emilia's direction and continued, "Well, what of you, Emilia?"

Emilia pursed her lips and feigned contemplation, although she had long ago selected her favorite soldier. She allowed her gaze to rest upon the figure at the center of the uniformed group: a lithe, dark-haired young man just on the interesting side of handsome, who was entertaining his comrades with an amusing tale that sent the lot of them into fits of laughter. Tilting her head to obtain a better view, Emilia also observed his easy, casual posture (rather uncharacteristic for a military man) and a heaviness around his brow, suggesting that his magnetism came from an innate intelligence rather than a simple knack for storytelling. Or so concluded Emilia, who, at the ripe old age of seventeen, considered herself quite an experienced judge of character. After an appropriate amount of "pondering", Emilia declared, "The young man in the center….the one telling the tale."

"Oh, he _is _handsome, Emilia," replied Chiara, a sly grin passing across her fair face. "Perhaps you ought to go and introduce yourself?"

"Oh, Emilia, heed her not….it would be disgraceful for you to speak with a strange man without your father's permission!" cautioned Marcella, but Emilia had already elected to take Chiara's suggested course of action. She rose from the padded bench and smoothed the creases in her gown, brushing off any remnants of dust as she did so. After straightening her veil, she turned to her companions and offered them a droll wink before peering around the tent opening to locate her father. She waited until he was well out of sight before sauntering into the center of the market and pausing at a booth near the cluster of soldiers. From this vantage point, she could discern the general direction of the dark-haired young man's tale; it was some bawdy story involving the misadventures of loose women, but the humor within contained something akin to real cleverness that quite took Emilia off guard. She was used to tawdry yarns from the traveling merchants and their sons, but none of them ever displayed any intelligence within the framework of their tales. Still more attracted to this storyteller than she had been previously, Emilia waited for an opportune pause in the laughter following the tale to turn to the group and make some light witticism (not enough to intimidate the men, but enough to capture their attention). Several of the soldiers turned to regard her with amusement, nudging each other and making a variety of comments about her audacity. "What, ho! This little chit has quite a mouth on her! Think you not so, Iago?" a ruddy-haired, gangly young man laughed, using his elbow to prod the storyteller, who turned his intense dark gaze to Emilia and studied her in a manner that made her ever-so-slightly uncomfortable. However, she was not one to be discouraged by so mild a matter, and she continued to flirt prettily with the contingent, directing most of her subtle advances to the one called Iago. Indeed, she batted her lashes and pouted her lips with as much coquettish charm as she ever had, but none of her mannerisms could deter that penetrating stare. After several moments of quiet contemplation, the dark-haired soldier finally addressed her: "And what is your name, mistress?"

Emilia felt a shiver run involuntarily down her spine at being spoken to directly by this young man; never before had she felt so strong a desire to earn a man's esteem and approval. The peculiarity of this yearning made her highly uneasy, and she instinctively began to lower her gaze and back away from the group of soldiers. However, she ceased this behavior almost instantly, forcing herself to stare straight into Iago's obsidian eyes as she responded clearly: "My name is Emilia."


End file.
